Project Z
by littledarkangelhippie
Summary: Over the past eight years, three people have gone missing. It doesn't seem like much, but things have been getting pretty strange around town, and it seems to be centered around a troubled boy, one who doesn't belong and seems to know it. He needs to figure out where these people have gone before more people go missing, but who's behind all of this, and why are they after him? AU
1. The Question

**A.N.****: I've spent about a month on this, trying to piece together **_**something**_** for you guys. I really liked writing about Naruto and Hinata, but I think I want to take on a new genre, just for a little bit. **

**This one will be a sort of "Mystery" where Naruto is the detective and he must piece together why it is some of his friends have gone missing. He won't be his usual bubbly self; he'll be serious, solemn, but he'll be wondering why. If he can solve this case, maybe he can figure out why he's been so depressed lately. **

**I hope you'll like it. I might end this first chapter a bit abruptly, mostly because I'm becoming more and more distressed with my other stories. **

**Disclaimer****: I do not own **_**Naruto**_**.**

**The Question**

"Uzumaki," a deep voice murmured.

His fingers curled around the edges of his desk, brows pulling together as he realized he'd zoned out again. He tried to catch his bearings, tried to remember what it was they were learning today, but found himself empty-handed. His mind was blank save for the last thoughts that were beginning to trickle away from him as well, like water through his fingers. He didn't bother trying to get them back.

He moved his gaze down toward the center of the room, where a man with tanned skin stood, dark brown hair combed tightly into a ponytail, arms crossed and eyes stern.

"Please tell me you at _least _read last night's assignment," the man went on, exasperated now with his silence.

No, he hadn't, but he wasn't about to admit that. It was better to lie to the man than to be scoffed at by his peers. He'd had enough of that for one life time. "Of course, sir," he replied, not a single string of guilt to be heard in his tone.

"Good," the man sighed, already knowing that it was the furthest from the truth. This boy had not done one assignment since he entered this classroom last August. He still had the same bed hair and blurry eyes he had that first day, clothes rumpled and looking less than presentable. He didn't want to know what the boy had gone through in his life to be this unkempt and distant. He was happy enough knowing the boy showed up everyday.

That was all Iruka needed to know, that he was at least healthy and willing to show.

Naruto leaned back in his chair, not bothering to even pretend to pay attention anymore. He'd woken up everyday for the past year feeling like a total failure, and the feeling didn't go away until the afternoon. One glance at the clock told him that wasn't for another two hours. He could never explain the feeling, or why he so suddenly got it, only that it took its toll on his mind, body, and life, and it was beginning to scare him. He couldn't remember a time he hadn't woken up like this, but he didn't have the best memory as it was, and so he couldn't quite compare quite right. All he knew was that it hadn't been like this before.

He looked around at his classmates, all diligently taking notes and paying close attention to their professor, and suddenly wondered how he had ended up here. He wasn't smart like they were, and he certainly wasn't rich enough to afford this place. He was here on a scholarship—not many students let him forget that—and the reasons why were a mystery to him. He hadn't passed a single class in school. How he ended up here was nothing short of a miracle, paradox, and enigma all mixed into one. This academy was meant for the gifted, not him. But here he was and he didn't feel like questioning it. Maybe at another time, when he wasn't feeling so gloomy and unsatisfied, he would get the nerve up to ask. But not now. Not while his work was piling up in one corner of his dorm room and not while his head was aching so much.

The minute the hand touched upon the big blocky ten, he was gone, slipping out of his seat and down the stairs toward the door to his freedom, maybe to even get a quick snack to go, never noticing the eyes watching him from the back of the class.

~~...~~...~~

"The exams are in a month, Naruto," Kiba said, snapping the chips in half to gather more of the dip. Naruto watched quietly, looking away when his friend stuffed the chips into his mouth. This was an old ritual, sitting around beneath a tree and eating a bunch of junk food together, reveling at the fact that they never gained a single pound from it, all but Choji, but he cared the least of all of them what people thought.

Sometimes, Naruto wished he could share in that ability.

He zipped up his jacket when he noticed a group of girls looking at him, throwing the hoodie over his head, regretting buying a bright orange jacket. "Yeah, I know," he finally muttered, already knowing his chances of passing.

It was the best news he'd ever gotten, knowing all of his friends would be going to the same academy, but also the worst knowing they'd gotten in because they'd earned it. Kiba was the athlete; he could play any sport and excel at it with ease, and the academy had jumped at the opportunity to have him. Choji was a wrestler, and had taken their school to the championship for the eight years they'd attended the school. Shino was the son of a biology professor here, and had earned his way in by passing every single science class they'd thrown at him, even the advanced placement classes. And Shikamaru, well he was the genius; he hadn't turned in a single assignment, but had passed every single test. And that, apparently, had been all it took to draw the attention of every school in the country. He had chosen this one only because he didn't want to make friends all over again.

They never once touched upon the subject of why it was Naruto had gotten in with a scholarship.

"How are you gonna pass this one?" Choji asked before taking a bite out of a sandwich, narrowing his eyes when Naruto shrunk in on himself. In their group of friends, Choji was the pig, eating and eating and snorting when some stranger made a biting remark at him. But Naruto...he was the troubled one. Almost as much as Sasuke Uchiha, the boy who disappeared a few years back in the seventh grade; he used to wear all black and keep to himself. And now they feared that Naruto was heading that way, too. But he wouldn't, Choji was sure. Naruto was the happiest guy he knew, always laughing and smiling and cracking jokes.

"Don't know," Naruto sighed, rubbing his forehead. The girls were still there, giggling and waving at him. But he didn't have time to be flirting with girls. He was too consumed by his worries to. "Maybe I'll just fail and work at some fast food joint."

Shikamaru was the lazy one, but the one with the most potential. Give him anything, he was sure to figure it out. All but his childhood friend, staring down at his instant ramen as if it were a cup of worms instead of his favorite food. Naruto was a puzzle to him, always had been. Perhaps nobody else had noticed, but he'd always been bothered by something. Shikamaru saw it, but he just couldn't put his finger on it. He saw a mask that Naruto had made, and he'd always noticed when he'd put it on, whenever they'd catch him looking down for too long and go silent suddenly, but now the mask was slipping, and it seemed like it was getting harder and harder just for him to keep it in place. Shikamaru didn't say a word, observing Naruto as if he were a test subject, waiting for _something_ so that he could finally piece that unfinished puzzle together.

But Naruto was harder to read than anyone he'd ever met.

"Guess I'll have to avoid that place, then," Kiba said with a smirk. It was a hopeful one, the type that he was beginning to use more and more around his blond friend. "I wouldn't trust you with _my_ food."

To his amazement—and utter disappointment—a ghost of a smile crossed Naruto's features, for only a brief moment. And then he was back to picking at his noodles quietly.

Nothing was more heartbreaking than seeing Naruto Uzumaki _not_ smile.

~~...~~*~~...~~

His dorm wasn't all that far from his first class, or his last, and so he was out of class and in his room in maybe ten minutes at most. He wasn't a messy person, and that was something he prided himself in. Most people have all kinds of clothes lying around, but he had his, for the most, part, put away in its proper place. Not organized, but not messy. His textbooks were stacked on his desk, completely untouched and possibly collecting dust, some broken pencils and dried out pens left beside them, open notebooks with the beginnings of assignments that tapered off gradually to a doodle at the bottom. His bed was undone, black sheets rumpled and pillow askew, a half empty water bottle left on his nightstand. A perk he had was that the dorm room was all his. No roommate. A year ago, that bummed him out. But now he cherished it.

He combed his fingers through his hair and realized it was getting too long. What happened to that whole "a haircut every two months" plan? How long has it been? Five months? The strands now touched the nape of his neck, some almost touched his shoulders. He didn't like long hair. Not on him. But he shrugged it off and sat down on his bed, about to untie his shoes to take a nap, when there was a soft knock on the door. He blinked at the door, unsure.

No one has ever knocked on his door. Not even his friends to bother him. If they ever hung out, it wasn't at _his _place.

He stood after a moment, waiting a beat before moving toward the door and unlocking it. He listened for footsteps, to see if somebody was just playing a stupid round of ding-dong-ditch. But he heard nothing. Not even a breath. He opened the door slowly, and found nothing waiting for him outside. Nothing but a black harmonica on the ground. He stared at it, not wanting to pick it up in case someone would jump out and try to scare him. As a child, he'd always come up with ways to scare someone. Clever ways, much more clever than this. He could almost say he was a master of pranks, but at the age of fifteen, all sorts of fun and games like that stopped. All sorts of a lot of things stopped then.

He picked it up anyway, twisting it about in his hands, all the while expecting someone to jump out of the shadows and smack it out of his hands. But nothing happened. He shut the door and locked it again, tossing the harmonica on his desk along with his broken pencils and dried out pens, deciding he'll do something about it tomorrow.

Again, he was about to pull his laces loose to take off his shoes, but his cellphone rang. On the fifth ring, he finally picked up. "Yeah?" he yawned.

"_Your girlfriends stole my guitar,_" an annoyed voice muttered on the other end.

"Girlfriends..." he mumbled, trying to remember when he ever started going out with someone, let alone a group of them, but nothing came up. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm hanging up."

"_Your groupies,_" the voice snapped. "_And they won't give me my guitar back_."

Naruto tried to place a face to the voice, but he couldn't remember. Maybe it was someone he spoke to at a gathering once, one he'd forgotten about. But, then again, he wasn't the type to throw his phone number around. "Uh... I'm not sure how to help you..."

"_Where are you?_" Impatient. Frustrated. Biting tone.

Ah, Kankuro. He barely knew the guy, had only seen him once or twice passing through campus. He wondered how he'd gotten his phone number. "Napping. Or trying to."

"_One of them keeps asking for you_."

"I can't come over, I'm busy."

"_Sure. Napping is so time-consuming._"

Naruto rubbed his eyes, stifling another yawn. "I had a long day. I can't come over." Repetitive. Resistant. Cold. He was beginning to sound like a robot.

"_Can I ask you something, Uzumaki?_" Kankuro suddenly asked.

Kankuro was a transfer student, he along with his younger brother and older sister. They had been outcasts in their school, closed off and dangerous, but it changed one day when the youngest sibling went missing. And then they weren't so quiet anymore, something going off in them, like a fire that had yet to be put out. But they never quite fit in. Not until the academy. How they had ended up going to _this _academy was also a complete mystery. He was never close to the guy, but he had never excluded him whenever he tagged along with his friends. Now it seemed he wanted to return the favor.

Naruto glanced out the window, a stray beam of sunlight making his left eye glow, and then his lashes when he lowered his gaze to his feet. "Yeah."

"_What happened to you?_"

If there was anything Naruto was, it wasn't a liar. But right now, he wasn't himself. Hadn't been since last year.

"Nothing. I'm still the same guy."

Not that he was particularly good at lying anyway.

~~...~~*~~...~~

Neji Hyuga was rich.

He was the heir to a huge fortune and that was something he did not flaunt, but did not hide either. He was an elegant young man that was handsome and popular amongst his peers. A lot of girls pined after him but he seemed completely devoted to one girl who seemed more interested in her studies than him. He had long hair that he kept back in a pony tail, dark brown and finely brushed and well kept. His skin was pale and immaculate, and his eyes were oddly pallid. He was the image of perfection, and yet he was teeming with flaws. He was too serious, almost condescending, and held no one in high regard but he and his family. And then there was his biggest flaw, one nearly everyone had forgotten but him. Never him.

His cousin was dead.

People always pressed their lips together uncomfortably when it came up in conversation, try as he may to avoid it, and they kindly said that they were sorry. He never responded to their apologies because it wasn't their fault. They never knew the girl, so why would it be their fault? His uncle always said, in that stern voice he never retired, that there was a slight possibility she was still alive. But slight for Neji meant no chance at all. She was dead, and he had accepted that. She had been the actual heir, the true heir, but when she disappeared—after the family had spent close to a year searching for her, paying _any _amount to _anyone _to find her—the position went to him. It wasn't something he was proud of, but it wasn't something he refused, either. He accepted it like her death. With a silent nod and emotionless eyes.

The fact that she was dead left their reputation in tatters, and it was up to him to reconstruct it. And he did, through hard work and persistence. Soon, he found that just about everyone had forgotten about her. It would've been heartbreaking to anyone else, but he accepted it like he accepted everything else. Without question and without complaint. His feelings were no part of it and he knew that as well as he knew the back of his own hand; to the very last line. He knew what he had to do and he knew how he had to do it. Efficiently, quickly, carefully, effectively. And that's just who Neji was now. Precise, intelligent, graceful, and meticulous.

Her portrait hung upon the wall of her father's office, and he saw it every now and again when his uncle called him in for a talk, a lecture on his behavior or perhaps a lapse he might've made in some document, and he stared at it without a single hint of warmth in his eyes. He remembered her with clarity, kind and shy and serene, nothing at all like the rest of the family. She was the black sheep, the misfit. But she had been beautiful. Almost a spitting image of her mother, if not for the way she had her black hair trimmed around her delicate chin. He didn't miss her. They had rarely ever spoken. But he wondered sometimes how it would've been if she was still around, if they might've grown closer and begun to confide in one another like proper cousins, like a real family. No one else in the family spoke to him in warm tones like she had to everyone around her, and he wondered how it would've felt to be smiled at with genuine fondness.

He could never find it in his imagination, sparse as it was. He found himself at a point in his life where his choices no longer mattered, where his own voice was no longer heard. And he found no sadness in that, just a deep thrumming and brief disappointment. Because his biggest flaw wasn't anything about him, not his appearance or his personality, nor his manner of speech or characteristics. It was something much bigger than him, and yet it had been forgotten as easily and quickly as a flickering flame put out in a raging storm with wind snapping and tornadoes twisting, memories swept away and emotions sliced apart.

Hinata Hyuga was dead.

~~...~~*~~...~~

Gaara had been a nightmare. She remembered that much. Silent, yes. Distant, of course. But dangerous? Absolutely. To the very last word.

Temari could not recount a moment where her baby brother had actually ever smiled. Oh, he grinned alright. Savagely, angrily, with a blood thirsty gleam in his peculiar eyes. But he never _smiled._ She remembered feeling a sharp pang whenever his name was spoken, and she remembered pressing back against the wall if he ever passed by too close. Even the cold, hard glare he sent in her direction if she ever got in his way. And the _fear_. She certainly remembered _that_.

But slowly the memories began to slip away from her, until all she could see was his name, scratched roughly in red ink behind her eyelids. There was a photo of him clipped to her mirror, one she never looked at unless she had to. There were moments where she would see her little brother and feel her brows pull together, her lips turn down slightly, and a sense of unease would overcome her, as if there was something missing. Like they were one short of finishing an incomplete circle, or in this case a triangle. And then she _had _to look at the picture, to remind herself of the baby brother she had been so unreasonably afraid of.

His picture was faded, somewhat wrinkled. She had smoothed it out over the corner of her vanity table, only saving the picture itself. The photo didn't scare her anymore, it only caused a deep sadness in her. Those eyes were different than she remembered. They were afraid, lonely, confused. He was twelve when he disappeared, and she couldn't even remember the last thing she ever said to him, only the face he had made at her; sticking out an unnaturally long serpentine tongue and narrowing those pale green eyes menacingly, baring his teeth and then slipping out the door with a chuckle at her revulsion. The picture was of him when he was hardly seven, auburn hair ruffled childishly and green eyes wider than usual. He'd been pale then because he hardly went outside, not because he'd been harming himself.

The day he had vanished had started out very simply. She had woken abruptly to the sound of crashing, her two brothers arguing in the kitchen. She hadn't dared get out of bed, for fear of facing his anger, but when the smashing became too much, she forced herself onto her feet and to the door. Kankuro was firmly planted by the counter, huffing furiously and holding only a shard from a plate in one hand. And Gaara, he was heading to the door, face expressionless. She was used to their arguments and knew she could do nothing to stop them, but something about the atmosphere just _screamed _at her to act.

"Gaara," she said. And he stopped, dead in his tracks. But she couldn't _remember _what she had said to him after that, it was just a blur, because then Kankuro was yelling again and Gaara was growing more and more agitated and she was beginning to fear for her life, and then he was out the door. And she never saw him again.

Nobody had bothered looking for him. Who cared about some outcast? Kankuro never admitted how worried he became and she never voiced the feeling of emptiness she had.

_Nothing _was missing from their lives. They had nothing to want for and nothing to feel sad about.

What was she but the renowned genius in their broken family? And what was Kankuro but a gifted musician?

And Gaara?

Well, he was just a memory now.

A sad and empty memory that would leave the triangle forever incomplete.

~~...~~*~~...~~

He rolled the pencil between his fingertips, staring up at the ceiling idly.

A stifled yawn had him dropping the pencil on the ground, and the sound of his stomach growling had him sitting up to search his satchel for some form of food. He produced a bottle of apple juice and a bag of chips. He tore open the chips hungrily and popped two of them in his mouth. A glance out his window assured it was nighttime outside, and another glance at his clock told him it was still too early to turn in. He stood from his bed and made his way to the little box on his desk, finishing the rest of the chips and crumpling up the bag. A hundred dollars off his last paycheck was enough to buy groceries and perhaps a few t-shirts. He tossed the bag in the trash bin and picked the money from his box, carefully rolling them up and tucking them into his pocket. He pulled on his shoes and retied them and, after a thought, took his phone with him.

Outside, the wind was fresh and smelled of oncoming rain. He locked his door and stuffed his hands in his pockets, sighing and stepping out from under the roof of the hallway to feel the mist on his face. He followed a crowd of fellow students onto the sidewalk, all heading toward the library or a cafe to study or socialize. He threw his hood over his head and kept quiet until they parted closer to campus. He paused a moment, catching the double takes the girls did at him, and then quickly continued walking. Past the campus was a small park that was used up by children and pets during the day, and inhabited by druggies and the homeless at night, and then a small fast food joint, and then a plaza with a collection of small stores and laundromats, and then the grocery store that he pivoted toward and entered gratefully.

To his immediate right were the cash registers, with only two of them open, occupied by a sleepy looking boy with dreadlocks and dark skin and a blonde with an annoyed look on her face. He picked up a basket and made his way to the cereal aisle. There was no kitchen to cook in, so most of his diet consisted of microwavable foods and instant noodles. He wasn't fond of soda, so he could do without it. But milk and water had always been his favorite, as well as orange juice. All of his choices—being one small box of cereal, a loaf of bread, sliced ham, a slender carton of milk, a large water bottle, and a bag of grapes, plus a pack of gum—added up to seventy dollars, leaving him only thirty to buy some shirts, but that was all he really needed.

His whole life, there was never a need for expensive clothing. He had never been particularly picky. That would've been selfish and unreasonable.

A store across the street found him buying a simple black t-shirt and a black sweater and a necklace with a fang on it, with change to spare. And then he turned for home, but a twinkle caught his eye.

He squinted at the rain beginning to fall, unsure whether it was worth the trouble. How much curiosity was he filled with in his childhood? Hadn't he had enough? But, after a moment, he turned again and knelt to inspect the strange shine. His brows pulled together slowly, and he reached a hand out to touch the little white piece on the concrete ground. It was sleek and narrow, ivory white and reflected back the red lights of the stores behind him. He picked it up to see in the light, it had a crack in the middle with a ridge near the end. He felt his canines press into his lower lip out of habit, and then stood, slipping the little piece into his pocket despite his better judgment, and then turn once more for his dorm.

After putting away the food in the mini fridge and desk, he kicked off his shoes and flopped onto his bed once more, letting out a sigh.

Before he could completely fall asleep, his cellphone vibrated in his pocket, pulling him back out of his slumber. "Leave me alone," he whined into his pillow, and then answered when the phone refused to stop ringing. "What," he snapped into the receiver.

"_Well now_," a voice replied.

"Kankuro...again...?" Since when had they ever been close enough for casual phone calls?

"_So I found my guitar, in case you were wondering,_" Kankuro said.

He hadn't been.

"_And your groupies left. I understand you must be heartbroken._"

He wasn't.

"_But, uh... I'm willing to make it up to you._"

He hoped to God that this wasn't going somewhere weird. Sure, he'd been acting different lately, but he hoped that hadn't changed his friends' opinions on him _too _drastically. He rubbed his forehead. "What do you want?"

"_We've been in a funk_," Kankuro said, his voice taking on a more serious tone.

"Funk," Naruto repeated. He couldn't remember the last time he heard someone use that word. It was so...old.

"_That's right. And I was hoping you could help_," he replied.

Now what could Naruto _possibly _do to help? He had his own problems to deal with, much more pressing than some "funk" some person he hardly spoke to was dealing with. He was losing himself and he needed to find out _why_, needed to find his way back to his old ways, and yet this man wanted him to abandon that? He ran a hand through his hair, sitting up and staring at his rumpled blankets. "I'm not sure I can help you, Kankuro," he mumbled, twisting one end of the blanket in his free hand. "You'll have to ask someone else."

"_C'mon, Uzumaki..._" Kankuro muttered, and something in his voice made Naruto pause, halfway to pulling the cellphone from his ear to hang up. He recognized that tone, one that spoke of endless sadness and near-desperation. "_Don't you see how much you've changed? If you help us, I'll help you figure out why you're so...not yourself anymore._"

And he had to think about that, for a little bit. Even Kankuro could tell how different he was, and how troubled he was over the matter. But what could _he_ possibly do to help him? He glanced silently at the window, perhaps to search for an answer there, between the thin streaks left by the rain and fog from the heat.

And all he could say was, "Who's 'us'?"

~~...~~*~~...~~

She pulled on a new pair of gloves, fighting the urge to wipe the sweat from her brow. She smoothed her hands down her pristine uniform, not even blinking when a pained howl echoed through the dark hallways. She only waited a moment, which was then silent and eerily still, before continuing down the hall, the heels of her Mary Janes clacking against the linoleum, loud whereas, anywhere else, it would've been almost soundless. The lights, which were dull to the point of uselessness, flickered above her as she passed, and doors seemed to creak open from the rooms that were empty. She did not dare linger any longer than was necessary.

She had grown up working in a hospital—at least, that's what she liked to say. She couldn't quite remember never _not _knowing about medicine and how it tasted and how it stung, or how clean (completely and utterly so) _really _smelled like, and it certainly wasn't flowery sweet and pleasant at all. Or how deep a needle had to go before injecting the fluid waiting within the clear capsule, or how bad a wound had to be before it was fatal. She knew it, she did. And she couldn't go far back enough in her memory to when she _didn't_. Because those memories were _gone_. As far as she knew, she had been born a ten year-old and had lived and grown within the walls of a hospital her entire life.

Or was it more of an existence, because living actually meant _living_?

She tugged at the ends of the latex gloves, black and not white like the other nurses hurrying past her now, bowing as she strode by them. Her uniform was too short and too tight, dark so that the blood perpetually staining it would not show and well kept so that others would know how to behave properly in this environment. But as she entered into the operating room, she felt herself draw back into herself.

Yes, she had grown up working in the hospital, but it wasn't as if it had been a good thing either. Mangled corpses and helpless patients were all she ever saw besides her terrified coworkers. Where was the doctor?

The doctor... Oh.

That figure waiting patiently in the furthest corner where shadows pooled deep and solid. She did not shiver this time.

Her earliest memory was of a dark haired boy, staring up at her with wide eyes that shined silver in the blinding light hanging over the operating table. His hair had been silken, and his skin smooth, and after injecting a glowing pink substance into his delicate arm, he had fallen limp and stayed that way for _days_, a shadow of a doctor working over him vigorously as she stayed pressed against the wall, too scared to move to comfort the boy, and then he was locked up in a room she had visited every day, but had gradually grown to forget. Perhaps, after this operation, she would go see him once more.

For now, though... She adjusted a mask over her mouth and nose, rolling a narrow metal table near the operating slab dutifully, keeping her eyes lowered as the shadow moved toward the table at the same time, towering over the subject and fiddling with the instruments carefully. She only allowed herself a customary glance at the patient before wiping the shining metal instruments clean.

Another boy, with crimson locks and pallid eyes, glaring up at them with a mixture and hate, anger, and panic.

She took up the syringe, murmuring in a meaningless attempt to calm him, "Stay still. This won't hurt too much," before penetrating his white skin and pushing a glowing liquid into his veins.

And his eyes fell shut immediately.

~~...~~*~~...~~

**A.N.****: I'm ending it there. I'm sure you can guess who the boy is, but not the others...?**

**I hope you have questions, because that's just what this chapter was for! Next chapter, we'll dive into this together! (Seriously, I have no idea what I'm doing.****)**

**You may not like the pairings in this fanfic, and I'll be listing them in the next chapter.**

**Review please! And the next chapter will be up, at the latest, next month. Depends, I'm neck-deep in schoolwork. **


	2. Harmonica

**A.N.****: Well, I'm not gonna count on this inspiration overload to last any longer. At some point, I'm most likely gonna get stuck again. **

**I am up to my neck in work, stressed out and tired, but, hey, I got this done at least! That counts for something. So, I assume this is going somewhere. I'm liking where this story is headed. I almost got all the characters in place, almost got all the clues and whatnot handled, got the plot shaped and development planned. I just hope it stays that way.**

**You guys and Naruto are headed on a journey. You're going to want to figure out who this "nurse" is and who this "doctor" is and I will give no hints. Much of the characters in _Naruto _will probably be left out, no matter how big a part they play in the original storyline. I handpicked the ones I did for a reason and I'm sticking to that. Many of them will only play minor roles, I might add, and some of them, won't say who, will be a big part of everything. While Naruto is dropped a few clues, you'll be wondering _who_ is giving him all these hints. And as we progress, you'll want to try to put it together yourself. Some of you might catch me, though, which is fine. I like it when some of the readers are perceptive. Makes me happy.**

**This chapter is longer than the last, yes. **

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Naruto_.**

**Harmonica**

"You're Naruto Uzumaki, correct?" a blunt, female voice asked.

He leaned back against the park bench, raising his blue eyes up at the speaker. He vaguely remembered her, a fiery girl with wheat blonde hair and flashing green eyes. She used to dress in tight clothing that accentuated what everyone could tell was a toned, curvy body, quite usually with a lot of dark make-up and wild hairstyles, strange jewelry and a wild grin that revealed perfect teeth and slightly pointed canines. She had been an angry, violent, straight-forward girl that got what she wanted when she wanted it, mostly because she worked for it and took no nonsense from anyone. Now, though, she stood before him with a much more relaxed demeanor, not at all about to rip his throat out like he had always imagined she would to everyone.

Her hair was clipped back from her face and her eyes were bright and wide, face clear of any make-up and seeming to glow with natural beauty. She wore a modest lavender t-shirt and simple black pants, a pair of black Converse adorning her feet, a black bag at her shoulder, and a band or two on her wrists. Nothing more and nothing less. He found himself relieved to see her like this, a calmer version of her. She seemed at ease, more or less, and smiled very gently at him when he met her eyes, two forest green eyes that told him there was more behind her humble appearance.

"Yes," he finally said. "You're Temari." He stood and shook her hand, giving her his utmost respect. After all, she had never given anything less to him.

She turned her head away, her smile turning sad. "This is a lot to ask of you..." she drifted off, her voice growing softer. The wind made her hair sway and she let out a sigh. She looked down the sidewalk, where trees grew tall and cast shadows across the pavement, a comfortable sight, with grass surrounding them that glowed in the sunlight. She took a step down the way, and he took her lead. "My little brother went missing some years ago," she began, lifting her face up toward the treetops, green eyes pensive. "I was fifteen when he disappeared. We'd had a fight, the three of us, I just...can't remember what it was..."

Naruto looked away, brows pulling together and tucking his hands in his jacket pockets, keeping pace with her. This was an emotional subject for her, he knew that. If he'd had a sibling, he definitely would've been just as worried. He could hardly imagine what it felt like to lose someone close to him, let alone someone who shared your own blood. He shifted his gaze to her face, gauging her emotions, and felt his lips turn down slightly. Temari had never been close to her youngest brother, he could tell that much.

He remembered them when they had all been together, how the youngest one seemed to dominate the rest of them, how they kept to themselves and were silent unless spoken to. And then when the youngest suddenly went missing, and how they immediately became talkative, outgoing, and more social. If anyone thought to ask him, he'd say they seemed a little better off without their brother. But, then again, who was he to talk? Perhaps, on the inside, they were both every bit as bothered by it as any normal family would've been. It was obvious from a mile away they weren't a normal family, but they still had those ties. How many hours, he wondered now, had they spent thinking about their baby brother, questioning themselves, hoping he was alright, trying to figure out where it is he went, and yet half-hoping he wouldn't come back?

The way her eyes darkened gave him a pretty good idea.

"He was twelve," she continued, stepping around a snail that journeyed across the sidewalk. "He didn't stay much around the house as it was, but we knew immediately this was different... And then he didn't come back." She met his gaze once more, her blonde eyebrows pulling together in deep thought. She had been thinking and rethinking her own questions for hours and hours, he could tell. As far as he had always known, she had always been quite smart for her age. The only person he could think of that could outmatch her was Shikamaru... "We searched his room, his belongings. There weren't any hints as to where he could've gone."

He caught his lower lip between two canine, looking up at the leaves rustling lightly in the breeze. "I suppose you also asked his friends where he would most likely be," he stated. It was a given. Of _course _they would've asked his friends. Anyone in their right mind would go to the friends first. Always after the siblings, but if it was the siblings _themselves _who were looking, things became complicated. If _they _didn't know—they being closer to him than any stranger—what chance did his so-called friends have of knowing? And from the look on her face, they had gotten nowhere that way. He sighed. "I'm not sure what to tell you. From what I've heard the police were no help, and you guys kept hitting dead ends."

She looked away, giving a sound of impatience; the old Temari briefly resurfacing. "I know, I know. It's helpless." A sudden look of desperation overcame her, surprising him enough to stop dead in his tracks. "But...please try to understand, Uzumaki... He's my baby brother. I don't care how much he tormented us while he was with us... I just...want to know what happened to him. I don't care if I never see him again. I just want to know that he's safe."

He ran a hand through his electric hair. There was the resemblance. She reminded him of Kankuro, something about the way she spoke, calling him by his last name as if she had a right, so openly honest and direct. He couldn't say he didn't like it. It was a trait he found himself admiring. She had no problem conveying her thoughts. She wasn't ashamed and neither was her younger brother. He couldn't help himself then, because he could see Kankuro in her and she in Kankuro, one in the same and yet completely different. She was a genius, and Kankuro was not. He was a musician, and Temari was not.

And what about their missing baby brother, Gaara? How was _he_ like? Did he share in these aspects, too? Was he just as frank and outspoken? He half-wanted to know.

"I'll try to help you," Naruto finally mumbled. "But I'm not exactly sure how you expect me to do that."

"You'll find a way, I know it," Temari smiled kindly.

He looked away, wondering what he got himself into. He was no detective. How was _he _supposed to figure out where her brother ran off to?

~~...~~*~~...~~

The first time he spoke to Gaara was also the last time.

It had been the day before he went missing, right after school. His siblings had gone home already and any remaining student was either heading home from sports or lingering about out of boredom, trickling past them and down the steps to the streets. He remembered what they had both worn; he, a white t-shirt and blue shorts, and Gaara, black long-sleeves and black pants. Naruto had smiled, trying to be friendly, and Gaara had only glared back at him.

"_What do you want_?" Gaara had asked, rough voice lowering in something similar to a threat.

At the time, Naruto had felt no fear. "_I just wanna be friends, that's all_," he'd replied.

And he remembered the look on Gaara's face, pallid green eyes widening in disbelief, an almost childlike look coming over him, and then he muttered, "_I don't like to be fucked with, Uzumaki. What do you _really _want?_"

The grin had almost slipped from his face, but he'd always been the stubborn one. "_I'm not lying. I want to be your friend, Gaara._" And perhaps the gloomy boy had thought him stupid for putting it like that, for asking him straight-out if he wanted to be friends, but Naruto didn't care. He really did want to be friends with the boy, even if everyone else didn't share in that sentiment. Something about Gaara reminded Naruto of himself, and that always brought him comfort. If only he could make someone else feel it, too, then he would live a happy life.

But Gaara was having none of that. "_Fuck off_," he growled, turning and stomping down the stairs. "_I don't like being made fun of_."

"_I'm not_," Naruto had protested, suddenly desperate to prove him wrong. But the look Gaara sent him had him freezing before he could. He was lucky, he supposed. Had it been anyone else, Gaara would've beat them to a pulp. Of course, that's what the boy had been famous for then. Bringing pain to others.

Then again, what was so special about Naruto Uzumaki that Gaara _himself_ couldn't bring himself to hurt him?

At the time, Naruto never thought to ask himself that question. Now, though, with all this being thrown at him, he had to stop and wonder.

_Why...?_

~~...~~*~~...~~

She tapped a pen against the bulb, watching it flicker on and off, straightening when it decided to stay lit. The room was cold as always, and the floors, she knew, remained pristine and disinfected—all things did here—and yet it all looked dirty and unwashed. She snapped on some gloves once more and picked at the instruments lying before her. This operation would be done all by herself. No doctor to watch her from the shadows. Just her and the patient, all alone in a big room hardly lit by a few bulbs around the room. The brightest one was the one large light shining above the operating table. That one could never break. It would be disastrous if it did.

She rolled the little stand near the operating slab, scribbling some notes upon a paper. "Subject has responded positively to every test," she murmured to herself, setting aside the clipboard and regarding said subject seriously. His wrists were strapped down above his head, as were his ankles down near the end of the slab. He was too dangerous to allow unrestrained; the first few times had made that very obvious. He would bite, kick, punch, and tear his way out if he could. But, she knew, he was exhausted from trying so hard to escape. He hadn't the energy to move. At least, that's what she thought.

She nearly jumped when his eyes suddenly snapped open and immediately settled on her.

"Subject has been stable enough" she continued after a moment. "Reacts nicely with chemicals and seems to heal at a steady pace..." She let her eyes span his body, not one scar to be found.

"Stop treating me like a damn animal," he snapped, teeth flashing and sharp. "Where the fuck am I?" She merely blinked back at him.

The cuts had healed perfectly on him, his skin as flawless as he had begun with. His eyes were hard and green, and his hair was a hellish red. He struggled in his holds, growling at her in a way only a human could, and throwing insults at her she couldn't quite understand. Perhaps they were of sexual origin, she couldn't quite tell. He was never totally crude in the things he said, and so she was never sure what to make of them.

She placed a hand on his stomach, holding him down calmly. "Although, subject resists to many tests—"

"Shut the hell up!" he yelled. "Where are my clothes? Where am I? Let me out of here! Stop touching me!" She rocked back on her heels, sighing in impatience.

"I don't want to sedate you," she replied, reaching for a needle.

He quieted instantly, only straining every now and then. "Just...get it over with."

"This will not hurt," she said.

"You always fucking say that."

She only turned away to walk back to another table, lining up the chemicals and shaking the tubes, double-checking their consistency. He glared at her back, listening to the soft _clinks _of the equipment and the faint murmurs she made, perhaps reassuring herself that she had the right ones. She could probably be his age, he couldn't tell. Around him, she was either always wearing that surgical mask or masked in shadows on the furthest end of his cell. The uniform she wore was dark and hugged her body, short so that he could see most of her thighs, with long black stockings and glossy shoes. He couldn't tell what color her hair was and her eyes were quite usually lowered. If he ever escaped, miracle that would be, and he saw her on the streets for some reason, without that getup, he would most likely not recognize her. He didn't know how long he'd been trapped here, just that it had been far too long, and it unnerved him knowing that he wasn't anywhere closer to knowing who his captives were than the first day he was dragged here.

The only person he had to talk to was this nurse, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't somewhat grateful. He would've lost his mind completely had it not been for her.

"I'm sure your body will heal from this, too," she said, holding up a clear liquid to the light. "But perhaps I should dilute it this time..."

"That's not that acid you poured on me the last time, is it?" he asked, hiding his fear beneath a biting tone. It had hurt like a bitch, that last time, and he had screamed and thrashed as hard as he could, and the only comfort she allowed was the sudden tightening of her hands around his wrists. Perhaps she had been worried. He kind of hoped so. Nobody had ever worried about him in his entire life. "_Don't worry_," she'd said. "_It'll be over soon._" And he had woken up in his cell, panting, wrapped in blankets on the bed, a faint burning in his abdomen.

"No," she replied, carefully setting down the chemicals on the little table. Some were clear, others white, and one was simply black. For some reason, he found himself dreading the black one. She took up a clear one and uncapped it, stepping closer and holding it over his arm.

"When will this ever be a normal checkup?" he asked, trying to distract himself. He held his breath as she poured it, at first cool and then freezing, and a choked gasp escaped him, writhing away helplessly and gritting his teeth against the pain. It felt like it was stabbing into his very bone, icy and hard and shining, tearing its way down his flesh as it rolled along his arm. He wouldn't let himself scream, he couldn't. He wouldn't let her see how much it hurt. He wouldn't let _anyone _see him weak. It didn't matter how many times she's seen him cry and beg and shout, he would always try to endure it. Deep inside though, he was afraid. She knew every way to hurt him physically, had every ability to do so, and she could do it at any moment, should she snap. But her composure remained concrete as a sturdy stone wall. She regarded him coldly, emotionless, detached and reserved.

"I suppose I'll humor you at some point," she murmured. "If you can withstand this, I will examine you once without experimentations." She wiped the liquid away and he sighed in relief. "I will not restrain you and I will not harm you. But the cell will be locked and you will not escape."

He almost smiled, in spite of himself, closing his eyes slowly. He wouldn't be able to escape either way. This place was _filled _with shadows that moved, eyes that always watched, walls that always listened. The window in his cell, one he climbed to every now and then, only gave him a view of a wall, one he assumed surrounded the entirety of this "hospital"—as she so called it—and he knew what the message was.

_There's no way out._

"Try to stay still," she said. "This one spreads."

~~...~~*~~...~~

"_Naruto..._"

His eyes snapped open, startled out of his dreams. His heart was pounding in his chest, his face burning, clothes sticking to him in his sweat. His sheets were a tangled mess around his legs, and his pillow had somehow wound up on the floor. It was raining outside again, pitter-pattering against the roof and his window, a soothing sound that did nothing to calm his nerves. His hands curled into the sheets, swallowing nervously and sitting up slowly.

He remembered now. That girl. How could he have forgotten? Not two days before the police had come banging on his door, she had smiled timidly at him and spilled her feelings out in front of him, blushing sweetly and speaking softly. He _remembered _now.

It'd been snowing then, and he hadn't had any warm clothes to wear. Just his father's jacket, one he'd found in the box stuffed into the back of a closet he didn't like to look at; it was gray and worn, but beneath he wore the jacket he always wore in the fall. His only pair of pants were torn at the knees, and he could still feel the cold stinging his skin. He had worn two pairs of socks and his usual sneakers, and kept his hands stuffed in his pockets and hopped in place every now and then. He remembered thinking she looked quite warm, hiding under layers of clothing. A white coat, a black jacket, a purple sweater, and a yellow t-shirt underneath, her hands covered by white mittens and her feet protected by snow boots. Her neck was shielded by a checkered scarf, one she pulled at and hid in when he met her pallid eyes.

Her black hair had snowflakes caught within it, a few strands sticking to her cheeks, but he found it endearing. For a moment he could forget that he was cold, and when she smiled, he felt his lips turn up with it. "_Hey, Hinata. What's up?_" He couldn't believe how naïve he'd been. If he had known, would that have prevented everything?

Would she still be here?

"_Naruto..._" she began, lowering her odd eyes and her face darkening. "_I...I like you..._" It must've taken every bit of courage she had in her body to say it, and, once she did, she could not look him in the eye any longer, looking anywhere but at him.

But he had not been sensitive. How could he have explained to her that he could not return her feelings? How could he even _begin_ to tell her that he wasn't good enough for her? All he could say, cheerfully because that's the only way he could hide his sadness, "_I like you, too, Hinata. You're a great friend!_" And he had done everything he could not to notice the heartbreak on her face.

"_R...Really?_" She was sad, he knew that. She was covering it with hope—maybe they could stay friends?—and he could see how much it took for her to stay there and keep smiling. But how could he tell her? How could he show her he wasn't who she thought he was? How could he explain that the boy she fell in love with...isn't real? He couldn't, and he knew that. He had always been foolish, air-headed, maybe even an idiot, to other people. But he knew what he was doing, and he knew how she felt.

But he only looked past her, at the falling snow, trying not to draw out her sorrow any longer.

"_I..._" she said, catching his attention once more. Her smile had turned sad, and her eyes remained lowered now. "_You're a great friend, too, Naruto._" And she turned and walked away, inky hair fluttering in the wind, leaving him there with too many thoughts.

Two days later, there had been a banging on his door, and two policemen stood there, asking him questions regarding Hinata Hyuga, and he could only answer, eyes wide, frozen in disbelief. He remembered his thoughts, then, too. _She can't be. Where could she have gone?_ And all the months that passed with people whispering rumors, and he hated himself because the very last memory he had of her was that sad, sad smile and the glistening of her eyes with unshed tears. And each day was spent wondering if they had found any hints, if they were any closer to finding her. Each day he faced the frustration of knowing he had no place in asking how they were, because her family was rich and none of them wanted anything to do with people like him. All he would do was give them unhelpful, unnecessary, useless information and they didn't need any more of that than they already had.

Had he been too caught up in his own depression to remember her?

He looked at his cell phone, there on his nightstand, and felt utterly helpless. Who would he call? And for what reason? Certainly not any of his friends; they would offer no comfort in this matter and they most likely already forgot about it, too. And not _her _family. He neither had the connections nor the willpower to do that. He would only bring up a topic they had buried long ago.

Why would he be reacting _now_, of all times? How long has it _been_?

He rested his chin in his palms, sighing. They said she was dead. But something told him that wasn't it. The more he lingered on it, the more it bothered him. He shouldn't care. But now that he had Gaara to think about, what happened to Hinata?

He was drawing up blanks. How in the hell was _he _supposed to know?

~~...~~*~~...~~

"You certainly seem distracted," a voice said from behind him.

He paused, staring down at the words and then snapping the book shut. "I'm studying," he replied.

The chocolate brown eyes watching him became amused, and he felt something tighten in his chest at the smirk on her face. "Liar. You never study."

She got him there. He slid the book back into the shelf, stepping away and finding a seat beside the window. _She _was the one who studied, always mindful of her grades and always thinking about her future. He sometimes wished he could do the same. His future was set from the day he was born, only altered when his cousin had died. He had one duty and he would attend to it dutifully. She, on the other hand, had a whole life ahead of her of her own choice.

"Tenten..." he began, shifting his gaze out the window where the rain fell in buckets. He watched for a moment, wondering what time it was but not entirely willing to look at any clock. Time flew by fast with her and he didn't like it all that much. He wished it would go slower, so that he could spend more time with her. But wishes were just wishes, after all. He could never make such a thing happen.

"What is it?" she asked, closing her book and moving on to the next one.

"Would you marry me?"

He asked that question often, and it never failed to make her smile. She kept her eyes on her work, although inside her heart was crashing against her chest and her hands wanted to shake as she wrote down her notes. Her face remained calm, her wide brown eyes simply reading the text, but she could not see for all the thoughts racing through her head. He wasn't playing with her emotions. She really did hope one day they could get married, and live together, and be happy with one another. But the fact of the matter was, that could never happen. He had no right to stray from the path his family had built for him. "Any given day," she murmured honestly.

His lips curled up ever so slightly in a smile, one she'd recognize anywhere. He was soaring. She'd made him happy. It was meaningless but it meant everything. It was helpless but it was beautiful.

"Neji..." she said.

"Yes?"

"You should really focus on studying right now."

~~...~~*~~...~~

"The string snapped."

"Good."

Kankuro shot a glare at his sister, lying there on the sofa with a magazine laid out before her. Often times, they found themselves in the living room, silently spending time together. It hadn't been like this before. Temari would lock herself in her room and study all day and read all night, and he would stay out with his friends, tossing around the idea of being in a band and becoming famous. They were never quite in the same room at the same time, but slowly, gradually, they began to try to mend the broken ties between the two of them. Life had always been about running away, staying hidden, keeping their eyes low and avoiding there younger brother. They had to learn how to trust one another again. It had taken a year of silence, another year of uneasy conversations, and then now this, a comfortable quiet they could enjoy.

Their humor was dry and sarcastic, but neither took anything to heart. The bond would not work if they did.

"I'm thinking of getting a tattoo," he said, unraveling another guitar string.

She turned the glossy page, pressing her lips together. Small talk to avoid the bigger subject. They had reached out to a boy to find their missing sibling, a boy they hardly knew and could hardly trust. Her eyes scanned the paper, all the while recalling the look on his face, blue eyes sad and unsure. She had to have faith in the boy, though. What else could she possibly do?

"You're not old enough," she stated.

"I'm seventeen," he muttered.

"You're not getting one."

He looked away. She was the boss. She was older than him and she had every right to tell him what he could or couldn't do. She was, after all, nineteen, and legally his guardian. She shouldn't have been, though. Wouldn't have been. But who else did they have? They were either dead or wanted nothing to do with them.

"Are sure about him?" she asked, smoothing a thumb along the edge of the page.

He caught the end of the string between his teeth and stretched it out, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "I have a feeling about him," he replied, snipping off the needle-sharp end.

"We can't base this off 'feelings', Kankuro," she sighed, sitting up and rubbing the back of her neck. "Why couldn't we just pay a detective or something?"

"You know as well as I do how useless that would be," he snapped; her eyes met his in surprise. He never really lost his temper with her, always trying to stay on her good side. How bothered was he by this all? "They won't do shit for us," he mumbled.

She did remember the look on the police officers' faces, sneering at them when they weren't looking. They'd assumed the two of them were no-good troublemakers that would one day be no better than street rats. And she could understand that, although she'd been outraged at their lack of concern, she completely saw what they were seeing. They were just two kids who didn't know where they were going. They suggested Gaara had just run away and would come back soon, but she didn't trust it. Something told her this was more than just a troubled boy escaping from the broken home they lived it. But she couldn't voice what it was, for the mere ridiculousness of the notion.

Who would _want _to kidnap _Gaara_?

She crossed her arms. "I want to believe you," she mumbled.

He set aside the guitar, staring down at the carpet. "You're gonna have to."

She flopped back down, tracing the lines in the ceiling, folding her hands. "I need to know..."

"...I know..."

~~...~~*~~...~~

He rubbed his forehead, opening his cobalt eyes slowly. His mind kept switching between the two, trying to find a connection _somehow_.

Gaara went missing four years ago, and Hinata had disappeared three years ago. They had never spoken, he didn't think, and so he could only draw up blanks every time he tried to put them together. The time-span between the two of them was short, considering not many people went missing so frequently, not from the same town and same school. He had spoken more times to Hinata than he had to Gaara, and so he assumed that if he had been stuck looking for her, he might've gotten a little further than with Gaara. He could not think of a single thing he knew about him, besides simple rumors whispered here or there.

He glanced toward the window, the room suddenly lighting up. A cloud must've passed over the sun just now... And something caught his eye on his desk. He stood and padded over, blinking his eyes wide when he saw the black object there.

_That's right_, he thought. He fumbled for his phone in his pocket and found Kankuro's number. "Hey," he said when the line was picked up. "Did Gaara play an instrument?"

"_No... Ow, wait!_" There was a struggle on the other end and then Temari's voice replied, "_Yes, if you can count it as one—_"

"A harmonica," Naruto interrupted, holding it up to look at in the sun. It was small, and yet perfectly shaped. Every hole was neatly cut and the golden metal within shone nicely, the cursive initials on the back carefully imprinted: K.H.

"_Yes... How did you know?_" she asked slowly.

He thought back and felt a light go off in his head. "I saw him wearing one once or twice before he went missing. Like a necklace. Never saw him play, though."

"_He didn't like the harmonica, I don't think. He just seemed to have it_." She paused, and then muttered, "_Why does this matter?_"

"It was just a thought," Naruto murmured. "I'll call you again once I have more to tell you." He hung up before she could ask more questions.

Somehow, he felt that harmonica had a lot to do with this. He turned it about in his hand.

Was this...Gaara's?

~~...~~*~~...~~

The shadows seemed to cloak around her, no matter where she stood. Even standing before him, pressing a cold stethoscope against his chest, he could not make out the features of her face, the color of her eyes, the emotion in her eyes. He assumed they were blank and expressionless like her voice. She was shorter than him, he could tell that much, slight, with a perfect posture that was almost unnatural. As if she had been forced to be immaculate and professional. But that was a total possibility.

"Your heartbeat is even," she commented, pulling away. "May I ask why it is you wanted a checkup?"

He watched her fold the stethoscope and slide it into the leather bag, pulling out a small jar and taking out a thermometer. "This isn't a hospital if there aren't regular checkups."

She raised her eyes toward the window, life as still as ever outside those walls as within. She never wondered how it looked like past the doors of the hospital. All she'd ever known was the dark hallways and screaming echos. "This is not a normal hospital, child," she replied. "I'm sure you know that."

He stuck his tongue out, letting her press the cool end of the thermometer underneath it. He knew that, yes. But as long as he could not find a way to escape, he had to try to hold on to the last shreds of his sanity. He had always thought that he knew what madness meant, while he had lived with his siblings. At the time, he hadn't thought of them as siblings, just two strangers he refrained from hurting for some reason. He wanted to go back to them, maybe even apologize, start all over, go to school, make friends, breathe fresh air, eat something healthy—taste the sweetness of an apple on his tongue, or maybe a sugary doughnut—he wanted to be _normal_. Nothing here was normal.

This nurse was the closest thing he could find to it.

"Why am I here?" he asked.

She sealed the jar shut, organizing the contents within the leather bag mechanically. She could not answer that question. Not because she felt any sympathy toward him—she was sure all emotion had been wiped from her—but because she herself did not know. The matter of _why _he was here and _why _they did this to him was a secret. Only the doctor knew, and he would never tell _her_. She could only do as she was told and nothing more. Obedient, reserved, submissive, silent, detached, loyal... The perfect henchman, she supposed.

The only answer he received was the quick _snap_ of her bag being shut and then the loud _clang _of the door being sealed once more, left alone with nothing but his fears to keep him company.

He didn't know how long he'd been here. Months, years, decades. His body was always tested on. How could he trust that his growth was natural? How could he know that they hadn't injected some chemical in him that changed him in only a matter of hours and, really, he'd only been here a few days? He didn't _know_ and it was so _scary _not to know. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see his siblings again. He wanted to take it all back. He wanted to, he did, he really did.

What _happened _that day? All he could remember was rain and muffled footsteps, the face of an impassive girl standing over him, soaked to the bone but with not a care in the world, a hand reaching toward him, and then it was black. Waking up with a blinding light right in his face and a nurse with a big needle watching him.

He could remember his old life clearly, everything, just not that small moment before and after he'd been brought here. And that was the most _important _one. He hated it. And he felt so stupid, because if he hadn't been so angry, if he hadn't been so scornful, he wouldn't have been here. He wouldn't have ended up like this. His hands shook because there were _too many _chemicals in his body and he really wondered how they would ever go away. He wanted to be clean, his blood untainted, but the longer he stared up at the barred window, the more he understood that would not happen.

And all this time, why hadn't anyone bothered to look for him?

~~...~~*~~...~~

"K.H." He followed the sidewalk until he spotted an alleyway, between a liquor store and small supermarket. The cars parked on the curb were rusted and unsightly, but he figured he liked it. It made it all look very genuine, in his opinion. Humble, in a sense. He liked the graffiti covering the walls, and the wiry fences that seemed on the brink of crashing down, the split bricks holding up old buildings and the rusty bicycles left to rot beside tall weeds that grew from small cracks in the pavement, broken glass bottles crunching beneath his worn high-tops, and flapping newspapers brushing across his ankles.

A few blocks down from the nearest park by his dorm, lied a small plaza that nearly hid a project neighborhood. Behind a few of the stores were barred windows that a car or two would stop at to buy liquor or fried chicken, and he felt something familiar peek within him. He remembered living in a place like this, where children played with stranded beer bottles and pretended to be their fathers, or ran through alleyways playing cops and robbers. He remembered handing a few crumpled, oil-stained dollar bills to a man with narrow eyes at one of those windows and receiving a cold bottle of Coke and a small bag of greasy chicken wings, and then eating happily underneath the shade of some large pipes. He had turned just before a broken down playground that still had crowds of children playing in it, and walked along another street of small, boarded up houses and shady stores, before turning at one particular alleyway that caught his eye.

A large trash bin, a few cardboard-box homes, and he slipped between a crack in a slender wooden fence, ducking down and pushing back his hoodie, blinking his blue eyes wide at the sight before him. It was surprisingly neat, a wayward shop waiting to be discovered. The grass was cut nicely and was a spring green, a uniformed walk leading up to the open door, a few chairs set up outside with dogs lazing about, eyeing him for a moment and then settling back down to relax in the soothing weather. He stepped forward, following the walk up to the shop and stopping just outside the door. The inside smelled like peppermint and tea, with various different instruments lined up in the front, and then books behind that, and then, through another doorway with dark blue beads as a door, he could see a home set up within the shop.

The name of the shop was a simple paper taped outside the window: Hatake's Music. Not at all creative, just pretty straight-forward. Honest. And he could already tell he would like the owner.

He reached up and rang the little bell hanging beside the door. Minutes passed before he heard footsteps creak the floorboards, a patient, "I'm coming, hold on," sounding from behind the beads. A tall man parted the beads and stepped into the shop, straightening and offering a smile to him, welcoming. His eyes were gray and his hair silvery, a wild mess atop his head, wearing a loose black t-shirt and smoky cargo shorts, barefoot and holding what looked like guitar string in his hand. "Hello there," he greeted. "Here to buy anything in particular?"

He felt younger for some reason. The man was probably in his late twenties, if that, but he felt a fatherly atmosphere around him, making him shake his head silently, shyly, and then the way the man smiled once more, reassuring him, made him let his guard fall down. "I...was wondering..."

"Well, spit it out, I don't have all day," the man said when he did not continue. "I've got guitars to fix, things to sell, plants to water."

"Did you make this?" Naruto asked, holding out the harmonica.

It caught the sunlight just right, a sleek black object polished carefully, small and yet efficient. Kakashi recognized it even before the boy had asked. He'd only ever made one of those, and it had taken him _weeks _to carve it, _months _to make it, and _days _to finally put his initials on it. He had waited a few days before setting it up on the front counter, on a neat little stand, already assuming it wouldn't sell. Seldom did anyone find his shop—he quite liked that for some reason, only those who looked could find it—and when they did, they hardly ever bought anything, and if they did, it was always a guitar or a violin. Something elegant and usual. That's why he made so many of them, because they actually sold. But a harmonica? That was a different story. The one he'd made was particular, small enough to be used as a necklace—a sort of mockery of the instrument—but big enough that it worked. That's what nobody seemed to see, whenever they stumbled upon his shop and happened to glance at the little piece. They assumed it was either an endearing little decoration or a simple key chain. It never did sell, and on the day Kakashi decided to put it away, an odd boy stepped into his shop, bright green eyes instantly catching the little harmonica in his hand.

"Yes," he murmured, but he did not reach out for it. He knew how it would feel in his hand, how it would hardly fill his palm, how cool the metal would be, how smooth it was. Just seeing it was enough for him, bringing back a sense of warm nostalgia. He had cleaned and shined that harmonica everyday before that boy had taken a liking to it.

Naruto felt his brows pull together. "Do you remember who bought it?"

"My, this doesn't seem to be a normal conversation," Kakashi replied lightly. Yes, of course he remembered the boy. He could never forget the look in those eyes, or the voice that had inquired about the small harmonica he'd settled back in its stand. "Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity," was all Naruto said.

_I don't believe that_, Kakashi thought. Come to think of it, this boy reminded him of the one who had bought it. They absolutely looked nothing alike, but something in those deep blue eyes resembled the green-eyed boy.

He walked to the counter, laying down the string and smoothing a hand across the wooden surface. He spent his time sanding it, shining it, waiting for a stranger to stumble into his shop. He couldn't say he was surprised somebody came in here asking about the harmonica. He had always expected it. Perhaps the boy had run away and had left behind that harmonica, but he didn't entirely think that ever could've happened. The way that boy had turned it about in his hands, green eyes wide in wonder, made him realize that there was no better person to own it. He would never misplace it. So then, maybe the boy was kidnapped, and in the struggle the harmonica had clattered to the ground and he could do nothing to get it back. And maybe _this _boy had found it by chance, and figured those initials meant more than just a brand name. Kakashi wouldn't be able to answer many questions. He didn't know the boy's name or where he'd gone. He only remembered being relieved that someone had appreciated his hard work.

This boy wasn't like the last one. The last one had been abnormally pale, and had had crimson colored hair and very thin, hardly noticeable eyebrows. His eyes had been a pallid green that reminded him of brand new leaves and spring, the only lively thing about him. There had been dark rims around those eyes, as if from lack of sleep, and he had worn all black—thick combat boots, loose cargo pants, a long sleeved shirt—and had worn dark jewelry, ears multiply pierced but his face surprisingly clear of any metal. He had looked vaguely curious, eyes scanning the shop and the instruments, seemed to breathe in the smell of breakfast cooking behind the beads and the smell of incense curling in the air smoothly, and then he had found Kakashi, staring at him in mild surprise—he'd never had such a young customer before, let alone one that looked so lost—and his eyes had flickered down immediately to the small piece being cleaned within a raggedy cloth. _This_ boy, however, was his opposite.

_Everything _about him was lively. His eyes were bluer than the sky, the ocean—one Kakashi could only remember from his youth, awed by the intense colors of the last sunset he ever wanted to see—and they burned with secrets and questions and thoughts and answers and emotions. His hair was sunny blond, electric, and spiky, and his skin was tanned. He wore a multitude of colors and seemed alert, bright, and determined. He looked like the kind of person who had struggled through life, had taken all of it head on and standing tall, and didn't take _no _for an answer. He had a sort of can-do attitude and stood there with all the confidence in the world. And yet, something about him reminded Kakashi of that boy. Perhaps it was because, behind all the things swirling there in his eyes, he still looked every bit as lost.

"I do remember him," Kakashi finally said, sitting down in the stool and sighing. "He came in here around the end of spring, I believe."

It clicked immediately. _Yes_, Naruto thought. _That seems about right. _When he had spoken to Gaara that first time, he'd already had the harmonica, hanging around his neck and shining as if he took care of it, as if he really did cherish it. It was around the end of school then, a week before they'd been let out for vacation, early summer. That meant Gaara had had the harmonica for at most a month or so.

"He hadn't originally wanted anything, I think. But he really seemed to take a liking to that harmonica." This boy held it gingerly in his hands, and Kakashi couldn't help but wonder how he had gotten a hold of it. He didn't want to think that that boy had _really _gotten kidnapped, but it was starting to come together that way. He seemed around the age that boy would've been now, four years down the road. Kakashi felt something akin to dread build within him. He had no place to worry over the kid, or even this kid for that matter, but he found himself growing sad at the prospect of the boy being hurt, and if this one had been his friend, he must've been hurting, too. "He bought the harmonica and left. That was the last time I saw him."

Naruto met the man's eyes, sad and gray and thoughtful, and said, "His name was Gaara." He looked away, adding, "Is. His name _is _Gaara."

_Yeah, he'd been kidnapped_, Kakashi thought. That much was obvious now. He watched the boy carefully. He wasn't bothered in the way he should've been. Perhaps he hadn't been all that close to this Gaara after all. Perhaps he was only curious to know. Kakashi wasn't one to judge, after all. Five minutes selling a harmonica didn't entitle him to anything. He rubbed his jaw, looking away. Then again, he had really put a lot of effort into making it.

"Do you...happen to know anything?" Naruto asked, hesitant. He could already tell the man knew nothing, that it was all just pointless. All he had learned was that this was indeed Gaara's and that he had bought it here, from this hidden shop with the odd owner.

"No," Kakashi said slowly. "But he looked like he had some...issues, I suppose you could say."

So, it had been apparent to everyone that Gaara wasn't all that sound, in neither mind nor soul. Naruto scratched the back of his head, walking forward and setting the harmonica down on the counter; Kakashi lowered his gaze down to the instrument, smiling very slightly. Still well taken care of. "He went missing a week before school let out," Naruto said.

"Recently?" Kakashi asked, but he knew the answer before Naruto said it. No, of course not recently. He'd been gone for a long while.

"It's been four years..." Naruto mumbled.

"And...you're still looking for him?"

Naruto shook his head. "No one ever bothered to."

Something inside of Kakashi twisted at that. Nobody ever looked for the troubled ones. Nobody ever cared about the minority. "I see," was all he said.

It was silent a moment, before blue eyes met his. "I am looking for him. I just figured this harmonica meant something."

It had meant something, at least that's what Kakashi thought. To that boy, Gaara, the harmonica had meant something. He just would never be able to explain what exactly. "Funny it caught your attention, just like him."

Naruto picked at it, biting his lower lip with a sharp canine. He couldn't tell this man that the reason he was so interested was because it had suddenly showed up at his doorstep. He couldn't say that he felt as if someone had purposely given him this clue, but he just couldn't figure out what it meant. "He always had it with him," he finally said. "I figured it would be a good place to start."

Kakashi leaned forward, resting an elbow on the counter. "Well, good luck. I'm sorry I couldn't be any more help."

Naruto pocketed the harmonica, offering a halfhearted smile. "It's alright." He turned and walked back to the entrance, searching through his mind for _anything _to help him.

Gray eyes watched him, a frown on his face now. _Poor kid_, he thought, standing to head back to his living room. He was glad there were people that could worry so much over one person.

People like that didn't exist anymore.

~~...~~*~~...~~

**A.N.****: It's getting interesting!**

**I can't wait. I'm itching all over and I think I'll be heading straight into the next chapter immediately.**

**Please Review! You have no idea how much it'll help me!**

**By the way, about the pairings...it'll give too much away.**


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